As part of its yearlong “Building Common Ground: Discussions of Community, Civility, & Compassion” program, the Bettendorf Public Library held a water-themed essay, poetry, photography, and songwriting contest. Several winners will perform their entries at the “Quad-City Water Lore” event on Monday, November 5, at 7 p.m. in the Bettendorf Room at the library (2950 Learning Campus Drive). A reception begins at 6:30 p.m.

Thanks to the Bettendorf Public Library for its permission to allow us to publish the winners below.

Essay, Youth (Judge: Lirim Neziroski, Black Hawk College): “Water in Motion,” by Jake ByrneWater is often seen for sustaining life, use in foods and beverages, and many other important things water brings us that we cannot live without. But few view water as something of beauty, an object of wonder. One example of water’s special effects is the ripple.

It was early morning, at a small pond in Iowa. Nature was awakening. The water was flowing smoothly. Everything worked out perfectly, until a fat frog named Frank decided to take a dip. As his gut entered the water, he brought about one of the most unruly forms of aquatic motion. A rebel ripple called Gill. Gill was very rambunctious and disturbed the peaceful pond. As the animals complained, Gill only spread out further. A squirrel was observing his mirror image reflected off the surface of the water. Gill branched out and blurred the squirrel’s reflection. Gill rippled further and further across the pond, until all of a sudden, he vanished. All the animals watched in silence. Frank took a step. Once again Gill appeared, this time with a smaller effect. He did not spread as far, and just as suddenly disappeared.

Rhonda the rabbit and her friend began complaining. She had been painting a beautiful seascape of her home until Gill came along. “It’s just so peaceful here, and he always has to ruin that.” Most of the animals nodded in agreement. Frank splashed over to the gathering. He slipped and slid, flinging pebbles and mud everywhere. Every little bit that broke through the water brought about Gill. The frog’s body crated a giant ripple. Gill grew and grew until he spanned the entire pond, pushing everything near the surface. The lily pads were shoved and the water boatman capsized. As Gill expanded to the banks, the animals could make out his appearance. He had a wavy body and dark sunglasses. He reached across the pond in a series of circles. His sunglasses looked back and forth at the animals on shore, taking it in. The animals all watched as the ripple’s inner circles dissipated at the shoreline. And then the last traces of Gill were gone.

Seymour the skunk and Benny the badger joined the scene with the two rabbits, the squirrel, and the frog. The rabbits were narrow-minded and focused on how unruly Gill was. Sammy the squirrel was only troubled by the fact that Gill disrupted his philosophic reflecting. Seymour and Benny pondered about what they had seen of Gill from across the pond. They had seen something more in Gill. Something of a natural beauty, in the visual effect of a ripple. All Frank cared about was cleaning his muddy belly. The gathering went abruptly from all deep in thought to a loud argument. Benny boomed over the noise and convinced all the animals that no matter how out of place, unruly, or disruptive, Gill the ripple is one of water’s natural beauties.

Essay, Adult (Judge: Michael Hustedde, St. Ambrose University): “Breathe a River,” by Roger PaveyThe stone skim-jacked over misty water, disappearing in the foggy ribbon of heaven hugging the river, slicing an undefined space where water began and sky ended with a silence befitting the unseasonable November morning. The boy made a bird sound, or at least what he thought the whistling birds said the last time he remembered listening to them, but the only answer was the gentle eddying of the waves at his feet.

Chickadee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee.

Again, no answer. He was alone, apart from every living thing except the river and the fog wrapped around him. The boy stretched his fingers and tried to grab the wet air, marveling how something so thick seemed to not exist at all.

The coat of fog hid the paper and plastic leavings of careless men, things the boy knew were there. Old tires, faded beer cans, fishing lines, bait containers, and a million other things were within a throw of one of those stones, but today the river rose up and coated them, secreting them away, and the boy smiled to himself. A giggle fell from his lips, the kind of laughter a toddler makes when seeing a birthday present, or an ice cream cone, the type of giggle he would be embarrassed about in front of his friends.

He bent down and fetched another rock from the cold water lapping at his shoes and remembered his teachers telling him about recycling and air pollution, but not about protecting the rivers and oceans, even though his biology teacher once told him the human body is more than 50 percent water. That morning he would have believed 100 percent.

His fingers turned the stone in his hand, over and again. He contemplated all the river could do. It sustained life, was an aquatic highway, defined his sleepy little town, provided recreation, and had the power to destroy lives and property. It was a beast both beautiful and fearsome.

The boy let loose the rock, skim-jacking it the way his father showed him, then closed his eyes and breathed the river, wishing he could stay all day and watch the sun climb the sky and burn away the trail of fog as the morning matured with brilliance on the bare trees.

But he couldn’t stay here unseen, throwing stones. Already he risked being late, risked drawing a lecture from his old man. “If you don’t pay attention in school, how will you ever learn anything?”

We live in an age of wondersWhere men with steel and rodCan made the oceans highwaysAnd play the role of God.

The luxury liner is the vehicle of dreamsTo sail the wavesAnd glory daysOf the Atlantic Stream.

A ship so grand has neverBeen built by the hands of manNature itself seems jealousOf Sir Andrew’s greatest plan.

The music from the shipFills the frigid April nightThe music warms my heart of iceLike the vessel’s shining light.

What can be said of those on board?Life’s grandest tapestry.Paupers, princes, millionairesMy icy eyes do see.

Captain Smith, the mariner,Like a Viking lord of oldDirects the godly craftWith his countenance so bold.

And here I floatA witness to mankind’s victoryThe wintry benumbed attestorOf this moment of history.

It is my privilege to observeThe ponderous ship’s entreaties.I only desire to make myself knownAnd state a humble greeting.

I’ll move myself an inch or twoThe Atlantic will not careThose on board will see my sizeAnd pass by as they declare

“Our watercraft is powerfulAs the titans of the pitYet the icebergs of the oceanAre far mightier than it.”

To hear these words of wonderOf admiration and of aweWould melt my April heartAnd begin my springtime thaw.

I move myself but an inch or twoSo they will see me on the deck.I hope Captain Astor and his wifeWill make a double check!

Sheer ecstasy, Atlantic!Euphoria, the sea!The titan vessel rubs upAnd gives some of it to me!

The seaworthy craft felt it rightTo brush my icy wallsBequeath to me some iron platesAnd leave me with no gall.

I thank you, titan of the sea,For the charity you have shown.For as a berg of iceNo kindness have I known.

To you aboard this worthy craftI bid you the fondest sleep.Rest as still as the AtlanticCalm and still and deep.

Poetry, Adult (Judge: John McBride, retired): “Devil’s Throat,” by Salvatore MariciOn the Argentina and Brazil border,flowing water in the Iguazu Riverslides over smooth rocksand on other pathsbrushes slippery mossattached to bouldersbefore the endless gulp dropsinto the Devil’s mouth.

I turn to the plateau’s right flankacross the horseshoe formationand see angels who wear white robesmount the cascade. They charge.Heads touch toes, one after another.Each warrior smashesfallen comrades’ feathery wings.